


Lucid Insanity

by moagidugigo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Minor Character Death, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moagidugigo/pseuds/moagidugigo
Summary: One-shot. Draco is a happy patient under Hermione's care, until one day his healer goes missing.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 27





	Lucid Insanity

A/N: This story was originally written out in multiple chapters under the penname SkanG. Plot's the same, rewritten as oneshot.

* * *

1.

Draco shudders and wakes alone. For a moment he lies still, nestled in and feeling oddly agitated. He might have imagined it, but someone's been screaming out his name, sobbing, a woman maybe, or perhaps a boy.

He is not sure.

Grudgingly, he drags himself out of the bed. The marble flooring chills the soles of his feet and he rubs them together, fights against the tickling of a coming sneeze and listens in. His room is quiet. He makes for the door, kicks it open and looks about the corridor. Empty.

Perhaps the screaming came from outside.

There's a ringing in his ears, the kind that comes from too much silence, and he crosses the room to open the windows. The ringing is gone, replaced by warm summer breeze and the busy chirping of crickets or whatever.

No one is there.

He decides he needs some wine. He's hearing things again.

He patters across the room, rummages through the cupboard, and it's then he spots the flurry of white behind the wineglass.

It's him again. Sir Armand the peacock. His father's sent him to spy on Draco. He does that all the time.

He makes a wild grab at thin air. The bird laughs at him, a swish of white tail and it's gone. Instead he knocks over a wineglass and it falls, shatters on the floor in a brilliant shower of glass. Blood oozes from his left foot.

Draco smiles. He does not wait for the morning.

.

Years have passed, yet habit is hard to break. Her reflexes still live in a time of war. She is quick, skilled, and he enjoys the thrill as the wand tip jabs at his neck, the glimpse into the years of her life he has not been a part of.

"Hermione."

Her hair is in utter disarray. He likes it that way, wild and free, echoing the fierce woman she sometimes is. She blows it out of her eyes and sighs.

"You gave me quite a fright."

She does not heed the blood that soaks into her clean sheets from his foot, nor mention the fact that a grown man is hovering over her barely dressed. The glass shards dig further into his bent toes as he pushes the wand aside and pecks her on the lips.

It is an apology. He adds a bright grin.

Wordlessly, she beckons him to perch on the bed and runs her wand over the marred flesh. Glass shards disappear with each spark of magic, and the skin patches itself. He admires the slenderness of her fingers that are closed around the wood, and lurches forward to grab them before she can rise.

"Can I stay?" he adds in husky whisper, "there's a bird in my room."

She is suspicious. He pushes at her shoulders and she sinks back to the bed. The dark closes in, and so does he, confident with his kisses, because he knows her weak spots—on her back, her nape, the nook over the hip—her laughs—the nibbles on her ear, the circles on her sides—and her moans.

Hermione loves him, he knows.

.

He's a permanent inpatient in his Healer's household, and he's happy with that. It gives him the kind of freedom St. Mungo's has never offered to any lunatic in their permanent wards.

He still has to put up with visiting nutheads if he does not want to be confined to his room until they leave, which can be days, even weeks.

At times, he sneaks photographs from among the many books in her room, gets a quill, scratches in extra limbs on the flaming red hair and the photographic idiot entertains him with his antics. Hermione barely contains her amusement and looks on as he dutifully exercises his agnogenic enmity against the long-nosed redhead.

Most of the time, for hours at end, he lies prone in the corner, neck twisted a little to stare at her until his eyes water, and when he blinks she is still there, etched on the back of his eyelids. He has finally learned to enjoy life, or so Armand tells him. He privately does not agree, for he doubts he has ever had a time when he hasn't.

.

Hermione has a fair share of visitors; Draco has none. He does not mind as long as the visitors are just patients, not friends. Some of her friends are decent in comparison with the oddballs who claim to be bullfrogs or Voldemorts and it is true that he wants to befriend that complicated bloke with unkempt hair and a scar.

Others are crap. Redheads in particular.

He does not try to justify his aversion to those freckled faces, especially the one with broken-but-still-long nose.

Still, if the peacock in the cupboard would keeps its mouth shut, he would not have barged in on them just because they were alone in the same room, would not have meticulously dabbed the tea leaves in poison to have the idiot's most virile possession shrivel up for Merlin knows how long.

He waits impatiently in his room afterwards, fidgeting behind the door. Armand snickers at him, grows bigger, menacing, and the redhead's girly scream is the most wonderful thing he has ever heard.

.

There are mucks and jells smothering Weasley's shriveled manhood. Armand flies in and out of the room, happy as ever.

Despite all the misfortune that befalls to him, the idiot continues his advances on her. It amazes Draco, the redhead's inhuman capacity to recover from the migration of leeches and Knargles to his pants, or the misfit relocation of his limbs that had him scratch his head with his left foot.

.

Draco remembers everything, be it her birthday, or just a plain Valentines. He knows the redhead does not remember any. He just knows, though he doesn't remember how he knows.

Right, so maybe he doesn't remember everything.

He still remembers pretty much everything that's important to him, and makes sure Hermione remembers them as well. He remembers the day he first kissed her. He remembers the day she introduced him to the misleading wonders of computer, remembers the first time he drank coffee, and the days and nights of insomnia he'd suffered afterwards.

He remembers the place she'd taken him to on their first holiday, the haunted manor house with vicious greenery creeping all over the magnificent sculpture, the blinding color of the peacock that drifted into their path and refused to let them pass. He remembers the uncanny look on her face, the mixture of sympathy, relief and guilt, but most of all raw, unconfined love that made him push her up against the ivied wall and pant into her neck.

He remembers the horrid, absurd nightmare he'd had that night, but has enough sense not to add that to her mounting stress.

.

He loves a number of things, but crowded places aren't one of them.

He hates the stares, the pompous, condescending and accusing looks people throw at him. He hates the faceless strangers who part path for them to pass, the nonsensical mutterings that frazzle his nerves.

He hates feeling like a criminal who has taken her hostage. He hears the whispers. He feels the hiss of animosity that radiates from random passersby.

And he hates them all.

Hermione, though, he loves. He loves perusing through her old school books, because he loves pretending to have been a big part of her childhood. He loves her scent, her hair, her emotions, her work, her everything, from her henpecking tirades to her musty old books.

He is thus content to be scooped up in their house, venturing outside only to water their garden, squint at the blazing sun, and return home to where she sits poring over books. His face never loses its pallor until _it_ happens.

* * *

2.

Monica drops dead overnight.

She's a frail old woman, hair all bushy and white, and quite out of it even compared to other inpatients. Draco still remembers how she used to inspect everyone's oral hygiene, whether they liked it or not.

She's a nice person though, so he's sad she had to die.

He's trying to pay his condolences when the redhead charges in with a horde of people. Draco watches them carry out the body like it's something that shouldn't be touched, sees the redhead cradling a distraught Hermione in his arms, and he pretends to be dead when the redhead shoots an accusatory glare at him. He listens in when the bloke with jagged scar huddles with the couple, but the language they speak is not one he understands.

Later at night, she stands in his room, barefoot and shivering, her eyes dull and dead. She does not say anything when he scoops her up in his arms, makes his way across the floor and tucks her in his bed.

He licks her tears, the salty texture tingling his own eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around her shaking profile. They sleep in the same bed without doing anything, and it's a first.

It's also the last.

She's gone when the morning comes.

.

He stands in the crowd for the first time in years.

It is a different crowd from what he usually sees. No one spares a glance at him. No one goggles at him, parts path for him as though afraid of catching Knargles. No mutterings. No accusing glares.

He wonders.

The sun mocks him, a warm summer glow so peaceful when his world's just ended. People are laughing, children giggling and running about—their mirth distracts him, mocks him, and he's about to scream.

_There's that woman screaming again,_ Sir Armand the peacock tells him, puffing up happily. _Guess who?_

_There's that boy screaming again,_ Armand sing-songs. _Guess who?_

He needs Hermione.

But she's not there, so he's sobbing and screaming, just like Monica did before she died. He doesn't even notice when someone takes him by the arm and carries him off.

**.**

"Sir?"

Draco does not look up to see the portly man in funny clothes. It confuses him a little.

"I lost her," he answers slowly. "She was gone when I woke up."

The man gives him an uneasy look. Draco supposes this is his job; finding lost people.

"We asked for a name."

"I need her."

"We're trying to help you here. If you'd just—"

"Hermione isn't home."

The man pauses. He scratches his head, smacks his lips awkwardly and manages a fatherly smile.

"Where is your home?" he says in a slow, clear voice, as though he is speaking to a deaf person.

Draco stares at him, uncertain. He glances around, hoping to see the shimmering signposts that Hermione has placed around their home in case he gets lost. The man has taken Draco to a building filled with cluttered desks and he's momentarily dumbfounded. He doesn't know how he got there, doesn't know where he is, doesn't know anything. He doesn't even know where he used to live.

He regrets wandering out of the empty house. Perhaps Hermione would be back by now.

Armand laughs at him. She's been gone for a month now. She's all forgotten about you, you poor thing.

The man stares back at him. He heaves a sigh.

"You've gotta give us something. Your name, your address, anything?"

"I don't remember."

Draco, Draco! Draco Malfoy! You silly little brat.

Armand clicks his beak, clearly annoyed. Draco is unnerved. It's the first time Armand has helped him with anything.

"Draco Malfoy," he answers.

The man in funny clothes faces the computer. He frowns.

"There's no Draco, no... What was that other name again? The one who's gone missing?"

"Hermione," Draco answers promptly. "Hermione Granger."

"Weird names," the man mutters. "Is she a—psychiatrist, is it? Well, that makes sense. I'll get someone to take you to her place."

.

They stare blankly at the stretch of year-old grass where Hermione's house had stood a day before. The man in funny clothes shuffles at the papers, his tongue between his teeth. Draco mouths wordlessly.

The wind snarls his hair.

Then comes a witch of a woman; her acid eyes emerge out of thin air, slowly puncture the smooth face. Her appearance jars the air.

"Draco," she addresses him coolly. "You're back."

He twitches involuntarily. He knows her. He even remembers her name: _Pansy_.

The man beside him is suddenly gone. Draco then spots him quivering on the ground, eyes glazed and mouth agape. Pansy sheathes her wand.

He asks the first thing that comes to his mind.

"Where is Hermione?"

.

Pansy takes him to the manor house Hermione had taken him to on his first holiday.

Still the morbid and derelict structure he'd once seen, the manor house remains unchanged. What has changed, however, is Armand; it has deserted the Malfoy Manor to follow Draco around. The little feather ball tags along everywhere.

Pansy marches ahead of him, impervious to his mulish inquiries for Hermione. She blasts out the greenery that blocks the main gate. Bits of overgrown leaves and tendrils soar over their heads—he gawks at her back and retreats slightly.

Door after door, they make past chambers and halls, down the stairways and along corridors where dust clouds gush at their feet. She stops before a set of carved doors and glances at him before pushing them open.

He feels her stare on his back as he steps into an octagonal hall, where all the eight walls, the ceiling and the floor are coated with thick, dark brown stains, as though something or someone had exploded.

He holds his sleeve to his nose and wretches slightly.

"Well?" Pansy asks behind him.

He turns and meets her acid eyes.

"You have a bad taste in art," he tells her.

She watches his eyes. "You don't feel anything?" she asks quietly. "I was hoping you'd have a heart attack."

He exits the hall quickly and does not look back.

"That was where you killed your wife and son," she tells him coldly, her hand on the door handle. "Along with a horde of Death Eaters."

He stares, and she finally closes the door.

"Thought you'd like to know."

* * *

3.

Draco married Pansy's lover.

He remembers nothing, but Pansy says it anyway. She's cold and angry and she tells him she has every reason to be so. She's been waiting all this time. She's been dying to tell him what Granger wouldn't tell. She wants him to die knowing that he did it.

That he was the one who killed Astoria and Scorpius.

It means nothing to Draco. He's mildly glad now that he knows who's been doing all the screaming, the woman and the boy, but it ends at that. To him it's like something he sees in a history book. He doesn't cry reading about the death of Abraxas Malfoy just because they are related. He doesn't cry about his dead wife and child either. Hell, he doesn't even remember their faces.

So Pansy shows him the photo she keeps close to her heart. Her acid stare feels like razors as he looks blankly at the young woman kissing Pansy, full of life and brimming with love. He honestly feels nothing, nothing, just nothing.

And Pansy curses, not with wand, but with words, raw and painful anger that shakes her small body, and Draco almost feels sorry for her, but he really doesn't remember anything or feel anything.

He apologizes all the same.

Beside him, Armand snickers.

_I killed them,_ Armand tells him, _you did nothing. I killed them for you, my dear child._

.

Pansy keeps her word. He sees Hermione again, in a big restaurant with soft lights and calming music that does nothing to stop the fluttering of his stomach.

He gazes at her, as he has always done, unblinking until his eyes water. She gives him a faint smile and he feels he could pretend they are back together, the patient and the doctor, the lover and the loved.

He beams and makes little whirlpools in his tea. They do not need words, he knows, just the two of them in the same space and he does not need answers.

In truth, he is not sure he wants her answers.

Time is slow. He finishes his tea. Then he catches a fleeting glimpse of tears.

"Can I sit there?" he breaks the silence, pointing at the seat beside her.

Hermione does not respond, but he shuffles over and sinks down beside her, scoots in until their arms are touching—for the first time in a long while, he revels in the feel of her flesh, the color of her hair and the smell that is just hers.

She leans against his shoulder. "You're going to die soon, Draco," she tells him.

He takes time comprehending her words, and at first he is glad it isn't her who is to die. Then, slowly, he understands what she has actually said, but he doesn't understand it at all because he is breathing, he can hear the people in the restaurant babbling miscellaneously all around him and feel several strands of her hair tickling his arms. He privately thinks he can live forever with her leaning against him.

He opens his mouth to speak yet doesn't know what to say. Should he refute her? Ask her why? When was she coming back? Why had she left him? Was he contagious, or was she with the redhead?

"Can I go back to you?" he settles on the one question he has said aloud every night they have spent apart. Gingerly, he wraps an arm around her shoulders, tucks her head under his chin and closes his eyes, waiting, finally at peace.

"Aren't you scared?"

He's not scared, no. He still lets her cry his tears.

"It's all my fault," she whispers, "it's all my fault you're dying. Just like mum and dad—I'm no—all my fault…"

He smiles.

"I feel like I can live forever," he asserts proudly. "I won't die, so can we live together again?"

.

_I believe in you, he tells her seriously. Your spell won't kill me._

_Yes, he has read the newspapers. No, didn't believe shit. Have faith in yourself, get a grip, you're the only one who can pull it off._

_Please remove my memory, Granger._

_._

Her father dies first. Her mother follows suit.

She also sees her failure in Draco as he falls apart before her very eyes.

It's her memory spell. It malfunctions. She'll never find out why, or how to counter the spell.

Sometimes she still wonders if Draco really believed her spell wouldn't kill him. Sometimes she wonders if he had meant to die. A peaceful death with no memory of his past, because when the Death Eaters came for revenge—they knew Narcissa had lied about Harry's death, had had a hand in Voldemort's demise—and attacked the Malfoy Manor, Draco killed everyone by activating an ancient protection spell, the one that had been there since the days of Armand Malfoy.

If he had, it is cruel of him.

Hermione almost hopes that he had, because she's decided to stay with him til the end, watch her spell slowly kill him before her own eyes, because it's the only way she can make it up to him.

She counts the days.

.

FIN


End file.
